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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728023">Family by Persistence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/pseuds/editoress'>editoress</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>On Family [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Sibling Bonding, canon compliant up to that point, post season two</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:20:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/pseuds/editoress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Imprisonment is not so solitary as Scarlemagne expected.  But then again, Kipo rarely does what anybody expects.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kipo Oak &amp; Scarlemagne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>On Family [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>709</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Español available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499298">Familia por persistencia</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/translatorPassion">translatorPassion (orphan_account)</a>
        </li>


    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is unexpected, to say the least, the first time he receives a visitor.</p><p>It is somewhat unexpected to be alive to have company; the Timbercats are obviously more the guillotine type, as a culture, or more to the point, enthusiastic fans of the chopping block.  Yet Scarlemagne is in a cage—a prison cell—so well constructed that no amount of strength, cleverness, or nimbleness has yielded a way out.  He has escaped one terminal passion of the Timbercats only to land in another, namely their skill at carpentry.  The cats keep away both allies—presuming he has any left, a question for another time—and enemies, of which he has many.</p><p>Scarlemagne’s hissing guards do not appear to enjoy this arrangement any more than he does, and he is keenly aware it would be much easier for them to slip up and let accidents happen.  Yet he is alive in a cell, because Kipo asked it of them.  It’s incredible, what mutes will do simply because Kipo asked them nicely.  So it shouldn’t be a surprise at all when his visitor is Kipo herself.</p><p>Kipo sits cross-legged just beyond the bars and leans forward, arms folded in her lap.  She is shadowed by the smaller girl, whose clever eyes are half-hidden by the skin of a wolf she wears.  It’s so dramatically macabre.  He can appreciate that.</p><p>Kipo smiles, a little, lopsided, hopeful thing, and says, “Hi, Hugo.”</p><p>Scarlemagne keeps his hands folded behind his back and his composure intact.  “Kipo!  What a pleasant surprise.  What has it been…?”  He glances at the wall beside the cot, scored with small marks.  He <em>must</em> keep track of the passage of time, or he’ll go even madder.  At least once a day he calculates out a fair estimate of the total hours passed, not least for something to do.  “Sixteen days?”</p><p>“I would have come sooner,” she assures him earnestly, “but there was a lot to do.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure,” he replies, and the drawl in his voice is not for Kipo’s honesty, but for the untold work she has ahead of her.  Her face screws up anyway.  Scarlemagne lets out an inaudible sigh and sits delicately across from her.  “Oh, how embarrassing.  I’d offer you a drink, but as you can see, I don’t even have a sideboard.  What an awful, awful host I am.  Why don’t we skip these lacking pleasantries and get to business?”</p><p>Kipo presses her face against the bars to peer around, brow furrowed.  There isn’t much to see.  “Well, I don’t know what a sideboard is,” she admits, “but I brought you something.”  She swings her backpack around one shoulder and digs through it.</p><p>“Kipo, Kipo, Kipo,” he chides.  “I don’t need to be <em>bribed</em>, dear sister.  I—oh.”  A book falls with a thud where she has wedged it between the bars.  Another follows, and then another.  He picks one up, turning it over curiously.</p><p>She clears her throat.  “Dad said you like to read.”</p><p>“Well, Lio knows me best, doesn’t he?” he sneers, showing teeth.  But the books have his attention—and very shortly, his confusion.  “Volume three of <em>A Combined History of the Romance Languages</em>,” he reads aloud, “<em>The Longest Road: A Memoir</em>…and something called <em>My Wild Cowboy</em>?”</p><p>She grins sheepishly and shrugs.  “They were the only books I could find.”</p><p>Scarlemagne puts down what is almost certainly a trashy romance novel and asks, “You didn’t read them, did you?”</p><p>“No,” she replies, and completely misses his relief.  “So I have <em>no</em> idea if they’re any good.  But I’ll keep looking!”</p><p>She’s smiling at him in such a way that he understands at once she wants nothing from this visit; she’s only a child who thinks she’s done very well, which she has.  Scarlemagne has no choice but to say, “Thank you.”</p><p>“You like them?” Kipo exclaims, suddenly beaming unstoppably.  “You’re welcome!”  She springs to her feet.  “Don’t worry, if there are books out there, I’ll find them.  I’ll be back as soon as I can!”</p><p>He grimaces at that last, but Kipo cannot know he has heard those exact words from inside a cage.  He stacks the books neatly, in part to hide his own reaction.  “Perhaps you’ll find volumes one and two.  Or even,” he adds nastily, “a self-help book on how to be naïve and optimistic.”</p><p>She gasps, eyes round.  “Do they have those?”</p><p>Scarlemagne groans.  “Goodbye, Kipo.”</p><hr/><p>“The little stuff is easy.  See?”  Kipo is sitting with her knees pulled close to her chest and her elbows resting against them.  She turns one arm over with a slight frown, and in a flash of fur, her arm is the muscled foreleg of a jaguar.  She wiggles the clawed digits.</p><p>Immediately, the tufted ears and shining eyes of a Timbercat appear over the edge of the platform.  “Is he bothering you, Kipo?” the cat demands.</p><p>Kipo reverts her shift with a start and waves two human hands.  “No, everything’s fine!”</p><p>Scarlemagne leans around her to smile in such a way that every single pointed tooth is on display.  “No trouble at all,” he agrees sweetly.</p><p>The Timbercat glares at him, ears pressed back, before sinking out of view again.  Kipo slides a hand through the bars to poke his arm.  “Do you <em>have</em> to sound evil when you’re not doing anything?” she asks reproachfully.</p><p>“That was my <em>nice</em> voice,” he assures her.  An absolute lie.  He has taken every opportunity to rile the Timbercats, largely because Timbercats are so delightfully easy to rile.  They snarl and brandish their axes, and Scarlemagne can laugh at them because they are deeply obliged not to chop off his head.  He has to make his entertainment while he can.  He has read his books multiple times—even <em>My Wild Cowboy</em>, which is precisely as terrible as he expected, in all the ways he didn’t anticipate.</p><p>Kipo sticks her tongue out at him, which earns a somewhat more genuine smile.  “But go on, Kipo.  The transformation?  Don’t leave me in suspense.”</p><p>She deflates, sinking back a little.  “I went mega again.  I thought—I found my anchor, you know?  I thought it would be like… herbs in, herbs out.”  She closes her eyes and pantomimes <em>something</em> that Scarlemagne can make neither heads nor tails of, but with such perfect serenity that he nods along as though he understands.  Her calm expression crumples, and she rakes her fingers through her wild hair.  “But it’s not!  It’s just as hard the <em>fourth</em> time as it was the <em>first</em> time!  It’s like I haven’t learned anything!”</p><p>“Fourth?” Scarlemagne repeats almost before she finishes speaking.  He presses a hand to his newest gift, a fancy coat that needs only a little alteration.  “It took my most destructive moment to draw out your mega mutation, and now you’ve gone and done it three other times?”  He peers through the bars.  “Be honest, Kipo; whose plans are so much direr than mine?”</p><p>She makes a face and pushes him back by the snout.  “It’s not like that.”  She wraps her arms around her knees and scowls at a distant tree.  “It’s just… times I need to be better.  That’s all.”</p><p>“Were there arenas filled to the very brim with lives in danger of a gruesome death?” he asks generously.</p><p>“No,” Kipo admits.</p><p>“Well then!  I don’t see why you should need an entire mega jaguar.”  When she pouts rather than responding, he adds imperiously, “One might almost think you enjoy the power.”</p><p>“No!” she says again, burying her head in her arms.  She curls tighter into herself, but resurfaces presently to continue.  “Well, maybe a little?  Being mega makes it so easy to fix anything.  But, Hugo, it’s scary.  I never really know if I’m going to go back to being—<em>oh hey Wolf!</em>”</p><p>Scarlemagne follows the direction of Kipo’s painfully disingenuous smile to the figure of the wolf-skin girl.  Wolf is no more convinced than he by Kipo’s sudden cheer.  “You said you wouldn’t come here without backup,” Wolf says flatly.</p><p>Kipo overdoes a dismissive noise so thoroughly that it is no longer fit for aural consumption.  “We’re <em>fine</em>,” she insists.  “There’s a Timbercat right over there.”</p><p>Wolf closes her eyes and brushes off her enchantingly ghoulish cloak.  “I snuck right past him and he didn’t notice.”  When she opens her eyes, it’s to glare at Scarlemagne.  “Are you almost done here?”</p><p>“Actually,” Scarlemagne begins.</p><p>“We were just talking about how great things are going!” Kipo chirps.  Her grin is almost bigger than his worst one.  “Right?  About how I’m—”  Here she curls her fingers like claws in a gesture meant to be fierce.  “—totally nailing this mega jaguar thing.”</p><p>Scarlemagne is struck by the realization that his dear little sister is asking <em>him</em> to be a confidant.  Wolf is her closest friend; if <em>she</em>, with her expression of mild puzzlement, doesn’t know about Kipo’s worries, then it is safe to assume no one does—except Scarlemagne.  There is a childish delight in keeping a secret between just the two of them, and a deeper one at knowing Kipo trusts him.  Not to mention the sheer, selfish glee of having something <em>nobody else does</em>, something he hasn’t enjoyed in a while.  “Of course,” he agrees smoothly, and Kipo blows out a breath.  This confidence is a gift he will treasure.</p><p>But he is still, without question, going to be difficult.  “Oh, but something is bothering me,” he continues, tapping a thoughtful finger on his jaw.  “Wolf, come a little closer; I have some wise, brotherly advice to impart, and I believe you’ll agree with me.”</p><p>Wolf stalks closer to stand over Kipo’s shoulder, more menacing than obedient.  “Not likely,” she says through gritted teeth.</p><p>He ignores that to put on his most gracious air.  “Kipo,” he intones, “you are simply too nice.”</p><p>Kipo whips around to look at Wolf, who only twitches.  Thus betrayed, she turns back to Scarlemagne.  “I am not!”</p><p>“Oh, but you are,” he replies gravely.  “You may have—ah—<em>totally nailed</em> the mega jaguar, but risking your life for every being, mute or human, who so much as stubs a toe—”</p><p>Kipo jumps to her feet, fists balled.  “I do not!” she yells.</p><p>“—As if you are the only person who can possibly address the situation—”</p><p>“Maybe I am!”</p><p>“Really, I think it’s a complex.”</p><p>Kipo jabs an accusing finger at him.  “Oh, you just think that because you tried to be an evil dictator!”</p><p>He smiles innocuously, spreading his hands in acceptance of her point.  “Let’s ask your friend, shall we?”  He turns the smile on Wolf.  “Tiebreaker, please.”</p><p>Kipo turns around, temper dissipating as fast as it appeared.  “Wolf?”</p><p>Wolf scowls at her own bare feet.  There is a long moment of silence before she says, “The monkey’s… a little right.”</p><p>“Mandrill,” Scarlemagne corrects.</p><p>“Prisoner.”</p><p>“Touché.”</p><p>Kipo gapes back and forth between them.  “What?”  A small smile creeps over her face.  “Are you two on the same side?”</p><p>“Focus, Kipo!” Wolf snaps.  She drags a hand down her face.  “And I’m not on his side.  He just has a point, <em>this</em> time.  Sometimes it’s like you don’t even <em>think</em> about yourself.  And you need to.  You’re important, too.”</p><p>She falls abruptly silent, which is just as well; it’s the most Scarlemagne has ever heard her speak at once.  It’s Kipo who shatters the quiet with a squeal and wraps Wolf in a hug.  “Aw, Wolf, that’s so sweet!”</p><p>Wolf glances uncomfortably at Scarlemagne before patting Kipo on the back.  “Are you gonna actually take my advice?” she grumbles.</p><p>“Mmmaybe?” Kipo tries.  “I’ll work on it.  But with the whole mega thing, I feel like I—”  She blinks in realization and turns slowly on Scarlemagne, pointing.  “<em>Oh</em>,” she says, “you are <em>sneaky</em>.”</p><p>“Thank you,” he says modestly.</p><p>Wolf is on the defensive at once.  “What did he do?” she demands.</p><p>Kipo laughs and pulls her friend away with an arm around her shoulders.  “Nothing, Wolf.  Just gave me some wise, brotherly advice.”</p><hr/><p>He is playing the piano when a familiar voice says, “Knock, knock!”</p><p>“There’s not exactly a front door,” mutters another voice.</p><p>“Uh, that’s why I said, ‘Knock, knock.’”</p><p>Scarlemagne does not stop playing the piano—an electric keyboard, if one was going to be picky about it, which he would be in ordinary circumstances.  It’s no pianoforte nor even a real piano, but it has all its keys and plays the correct notes, and though it rocks alarmingly on its folding stand, he can wring a sonata out of it.  He’s in the third movement of one of his favorite pieces.  “Who’s there?” he calls cheerfully, and looks up from the keyboard.</p><p>It’s Kipo, of course. Accompanying her this time is a Mod Frog, who upon closer inspection proves to be the very frog who once tried to spirit her away from Scarlemagne’s own pursuit.  Is there any faction of mutes she did <em>not</em> steal out from under his influence?  The frog narrows his bulbous eyes and folds his arms over an impeccably pressed suit.  Kipo, oblivious, grins and calls back, “Kipo!  And this is Jam—”</p><p>The frog slaps a hand over her mouth.  “Yeah, no, do <em>not</em> introduce me to Scarlemagne.  Thank you.  You,” he declares to Kipo, “are crazy.  And you?”  He points to his eyes and then to Scarlemagne.  “I’m watching you.”  He backs away slowly to the far end of the platform.</p><p>Kipo waves.  “Thanks, Jamack!”</p><p>“<em>Seriously?</em>” the frog bellows from the top of the stairs.</p><p>Scarlemagne finishes the last few measures with appropriate flair.  Kipo applauds earnestly, and he makes a seated bow.  “Thank you, thank you,” he says.  “And what a surprise this is!  I thought saving the world would keep you a while longer, or at least be higher priority.”</p><p>She leans against the bars, beaming.  “I’m your baby sis-ter,” she sings.  “You can’t get rid of me!”</p><p>Oh dear, he thinks, and then: that <em>is</em> what is happening, after all, isn’t it?  As obvious as her affection has been through her constant visits and scavenged gifts, it’s wholly surreal to hear anyone offer loyalty that is not just freely given but unsolicited—and vaguely threatening in word choice.  After years of abandonment, violence, and scraping his way to the top, he is faced with the ominous opposite in a girl who simply will not go away, even if—hypothetically, for argument’s sake—he enacts a mad scheme of species-wide vengeance and unrivaled power.  He wonders whether this was what family was supposed to be the entire time.</p><p>“Um, Hugo?” Kipo prompts.  “Everything okay in there?”</p><p>“Yes, perfectly.”  Scarlemagne plays a little glissando on the keyboard; it sounds nothing less than tacky after the pianoforte, but it allows him time to think.  “Astounding, how okay everything is, considering I’m in a cage.”</p><p>She winces with all of her wiry frame.  “Sorry….”</p><p>He sighs and abandons the keyboard to stand in front of her.  “Kipo,” he says impatiently, “if you don’t mind, I am <em>trying</em> to say thank you.”</p><p>“Oh!  You are?”  Her nose wrinkles in confusion.  “For what?”</p><p>“For being impossible to get rid of.”  When his airy answer does not clear her confusion, he explains, “For not leaving me alone.  You see?”</p><p>Kipo’s face lights with a grin at once, and she presses her hands to her cheeks.  “Aw…!  Come here!  We are hugging, right now!”</p><p>Scarlemagne crouches down obediently.  Kipo’s gangly arms still can’t reach around him, but they give it a good go, and he can reach far enough through the bars to put a hand on her shoulder.  It’s no pinnacle of embraces, but he cannot find it in him to mind very much.  At last, she lets him go, so delighted that she bounces on her toes a bit.  And he has to smile back, doesn’t he?</p><p>Later, when she leaves, Kipo promises, “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”  And Scarlemagne believes her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kipo calls this a “family jam,” a delightfully pithy name for these visits.  She sits cross-legged on the platform outside his cell and cradles a guitar, and Scarlemagne attends to his electric keyboard.  They both have a gift for musical improvisation—inherited from Lio, he supposes, but he is willing to overlook that unfortunate element in favor of a common interest.  Kipo even invents lyrics from time to time.  Scarlemagne hasn’t really sung since he was only a little older than her, relatively speaking.  It’s always been the piano that he loves most.  Even so, he tacks on a verse every so often, and Kipo makes for a very appreciative audience.</p><p>This particular jam has settled into a time for quiet composition.  Kipo has shifted around so much that she is facing completely away from him.  She hunches over the guitar, cycling through the same three chords as she mutters half-lines to herself.  Scarlemagne is surprisingly content to listen in and pick out a little etude he has partially forgotten.  He is dreadfully bored so much of the time, but whether or not he is being entertained, the feeling is lessened with company.</p><p>Kipo tilts backward to look upside-down at him.  “Hugo,” she asks plaintively, “what rhymes with Benson?”</p><p>“Ensign, of course.”</p><p>“Ensign?”  She makes a face and sits upright again.  But she begins to sing tentatively, “Hmm hmm hmm Benson… more than a lowly ensign….”  The music cuts off with a loud snort of laughter.</p><p>Scarlemagne smiles to himself.  His hands find a familiar tune on the keyboard, which he pays no mind to beyond the soothing one-two-three cadence.  The sunlight gleams dazzling gold, and the quiet is the comfortable, undemanding sort; it’s a rare moment.  He learned long ago that such moments can only be improved by waltzes.</p><p>Kipo gasps and turns around.  “You know our song!”  She strums happily along to his playing on her guitar, and an awareness of the tune crystallizes into sharp angles in Scarlemagne’s memory.  Just as the dread sets in, she sings, “We may not have sunshine, or starlight or—”</p><p>The piano crashes to a discordant halt, and Scarlemagne snatches his hands away from the keys.  “<em>Enough!</em>” he snarls.  Kipo startles so hard that the guitar gives a hollow, confused clang.  Slowly, Scarlemagne drags his temper in and paints it into a wide smile.  “Kipo, dear,” he says, very calmly, “we can play any other song you like.  Any song at all, so long as it’s not…”  He bites down on the smile.  “<em>That</em> one.”</p><p>She pins him with a thoughtful stare, a frown creasing her brow.  Wheels are turning in the well-meaning but unstoppable machine of Kipo’s mind.  With a sudden spark of determination, she stands up and resumes playing.  “But we’ve got each other,” she sings a little too loudly, “and that’s even better.”</p><p>Scarlemagne growls and grinds his teeth; the plastic piano creaks under his grip.  There is nothing to do but turn his back.  Behind him, Kipo continues, “You don’t need the sun to keep you warm when you’ve got arms,” and then she has the nerve, the <em>gall</em>, to pause.  Scarlemagne knows precisely what that pause is for—after all, wasn’t it once his favorite part?—and he rounds on her.</p><p>Kipo has fit her arm up to the shoulder through the bars, and she is reaching for him expectantly.  Scarlemagne stares at her outstretched hand for a moment before exhaling sharply.  “Oh, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>“Come <em>on</em>,” she insists, frustration tinting her tone.  “It’s our song!”</p><p>He reels back from the sting of that declaration.  “<em>We</em> already have a song, Kipo.  Or had you forgotten it already?”</p><p>She lets out a breath too large for her thin frame and too long-suffering for a teenager.  “I know, I remember!  But this one—”</p><p>“<em>That</em> one,” he continues over her, “is <em>Lio’s</em> song.  As you can see, I am no longer a child, and Lio is hardly filling up my busy social schedule, and so <em>I don’t want to hear it anymore</em>.”</p><p>Fortunately, some of the fighting spirit leaves her at that, and she leans unhappily against the bars.  Unfortunately, she then turns a sad, wide-eyed expression on him that is so affecting he nearly feels he ought to take notes.  “Don’t you want things to be better?” she asks.</p><p>“Better?” Scarlemagne repeats.  How on earth does she manage to catch him flat-footed so often?  He waves a hand around the cell, which, admittedly, looks more like a bedroom than it once did, and paces closer.  Graciously, he allows, “Well, there is room for a few more concessions, I think—a chandelier, a wardrobe, a personal servant to attend to my every whim….”</p><p>He is evading the question, and both of them are perfectly aware of it.  He turns aside her reproachful look with a reassuring smile.  “Forget about the song, Kipo,” he tells her.  He takes her hand, which is still dangling between the bars, and pats it.  “We can have <em>infinite</em> songs.  Marvelous, dramatic, rocking new compositions, one after the other, just between us.  Wouldn’t you like that?”</p><p>The palpable sorrow hasn’t left her.  “I want <em>all</em> of us to be a family.  You know—you and me and Mom and Dad?”</p><p>“Ah,” he says keenly, “<em>someone</em> is asking for the moon on a silver platter again.”</p><p>Kipo shrugs.  “I could be asking for you and Dad to maybe just… talk?”</p><p>“Six of one, dear sister.  Half a dozen of the other, as they say.”  He narrows his eyes at her.  “And put that kicked-pup expression away, please.”</p><p>She ignores his request, <em>please</em> and all, which until recently would have earned anyone else a creative demise; it’s really no wonder she wants to bring them all together, practiced as she already is in her role as the baby of the family.  Even Scarlemagne let her get away with far too much, even at his worst.  Suddenly, face pinched in worry, she asks, “Do you hate Mom, too?”</p><p>It appears he isn’t destined to hold on to his composure this evening, as Kipo insists on knocking him off balance at every turn.  “Perhaps,” he says slowly, trying it out, but there is a twinge in his chest, and he amends, “No.”  He hasn’t truly spoken with Song since before her transformation, and though he is slowly collecting misgivings about her and Lio’s questionable habit of combining child rearing with scientific progress, he does not <em>hate</em> her.</p><p>“Okay.  Good.”  Kipo smiles, and though it’s hardly her usual sunbeam grin, it is progress.  The smile falls away to a look of deep concentration: the first sign of danger on the horizon.  Scarlemagne experiences what he feels is an appropriate amount of trepidation.</p><p>“Don’t get any ideas,” he begins.</p><p>“Too late!”  She mimes a lightbulb popping on over her head, and the grin returns.  “I know <em>exactly </em>what to do.”</p><p>If Scarlemagne has ever seen an ill omen, then Kipo cheerfully proclaiming that she has a plan is it.  He eyes her warily.  “Do you think you can get everything you want through sheer blithe persistence?”</p><p>“Yes,” she answers decisively.</p><hr/><p>It does not take long for Kipo’s idea to manifest.</p><p>Scarlemagne eats a grilled cheese sandwich in dignified silence.  The cheese, he has been informed, comes courtesy of the Chevre Sisters, and the cooking is Benson’s.  Neither of these facts shifts the blame from Kipo’s carefree shoulders.  The girl in question offers him a smile full of crumbs from across the bars.  She is devouring her sandwich with joyful voracity, as she eats everything.  A teenage metabolism is already a considerable beast; having an actual beast in her veins must give her even more of an appetite.</p><p>Beside her, Lio has barely touched his food.  His eyes dart around the scene as if <em>he</em> is the one in a cage.  What can he possibly be afraid of—that Scarlemagne will rattle the bars at him?  It is as gratifying as it is infuriating.  Scarlemagne settles on taking it as a victory so that the acrid smell of human fear doesn’t ruin his sandwich.  It’s excellent provolone.</p><p>“Diff iff <em>fo</em> good,” Kipo manages with her mouth full.</p><p>Lio sighs in a way Scarlemagne finds eerily familiar.  “Kipo, finish your bite.”</p><p>“You didn’t teach her table manners, I see,” Scarlemagne murmurs.</p><p>Lio shoots him a pained look that might have once tried to be a smile.  He picks at the crust of his grilled cheese.</p><p>Scarlemagne watches the nervous gesture critically for a moment before smiling sharply at Lio.  “Let me guess,” he offers, “you didn’t think <em>this</em> was a good idea, either.”</p><p>Lio and Kipo exchange a glance, pleading on her end and careful on his.  “I don’t know,” he admits.  “But I think Kipo’s right.  We’ve got to try something, Hugo—”</p><p>“<em>You</em>,” Scarlemagne seethes, twisting the pronoun into a curse, “do <em>not</em> get to call me that.”  He holds up a finger at Kipo, who is hastily trying to get through a mouthful of cheese to object.  He turns his attention back to Lio and simmers into a something resembling calm.  “If you are going to flinch at everything I do, then you might as well use the name to go with that caution, hmm?”</p><p>Lio takes a long, deep breath.  He meets Scarlemagne’s eyes steadily and spreads his hands, palms up, in an open, defenseless gesture.  His words are slow and his voice hoarse when he finally says, “I don’t know what I can say.  Or what I can do.  I don’t know… where to start.”</p><p>Scarlemagne stares at him for a long time, suffering under the slowly dawning awareness that those answers are beyond him, too, though it occurs to him to make improbable demands just to watch the man fail.  Concrete evidence that Lio will not or cannot bridge the gap would be such sweet vindication.</p><p>“We can start here,” Kipo announces.  She throws her arms wide as if to embrace them both.  “A family picnic without trying to kill each other!  That’s… something, right?”</p><p>Scarlemagne can’t help it; he barks out a short laugh, genuine under its slightly hysteric edge.  “My dear,” he says, “you have the lowest standards of anyone I have ever met.  Is that all you want?  Attempted murder is off the table?”</p><p>She makes a face at him.  “It’s a start!”</p><p>“Very well, then.”  Dryly, he asks, “Is that amenable to you, Lio?”</p><p>Lio rubs the back of his neck.  “That would be nice,” he replies, strained.</p><p>There is something to be said for easily attainable goals, though Scarlemagne himself has never said it except to mutter in disdain.  He was always more a fan of grandeur and ambition.  But though the family gathering does not improve, it meets Kipo’s requirements and so can technically be called a success.  She does most of the talking; of course she does.  She is the only reason they’re here.  Scarlemagne quickly finds that it’s easiest to tolerate Lio in silence and respond only to Kipo’s enthusiastic ramblings, and Lio does much the same.</p><p>When they stand to leave, Lio hesitantly reaches out toward Scarlemagne, who both desperately wants Lio to squeeze his shoulder and idly considers biting him like a savage.  It must show on his face, because Lio’s hand drops away before either can happen.  Arm in arm, Lio and Kipo depart.</p><p>Scarlemagne barely has a moment to himself before Kipo is sprinting back toward him.  She grabs his arm, beaming.  “Thank you.”</p><p>He raises a brow.  “For not flying into a well-deserved rage and wreaking destruction?” he guesses sardonically.  “You are so very welcome.”</p><p>“No—well, okay, that.”  She rolls her eyes.  “I mean for trying.  Thanks, Hugo.”  With that, she leaves again, darting off after their father.</p><p>Scarlemagne watches her go, confounded.  Did she consider <em>that</em> an effort on his part?  Unearned gratitude may be somehow worse than accusation; it certainly sits heavier on his thoughts.  Or was he unwittingly better behaved with his dear sister as a witness?  He thinks back over the exchange, but imagining it with only himself and Lio is impossible; it never would have happened.  It’s almost laughable to try to piece together any part of this without Kipo’s influence.</p><p>“I am being <em>ruined</em>,” he laments aloud.  No one disagrees.</p><hr/><p>It is a quiet night.  As usual, Kipo’s visit came with no discernible justification.  They had no pressing business to discuss; she simply wanted his company, and he wasn’t going to deny her, was he?  Their conversation lapsed a few minutes ago.  He is reading, and she is stargazing.</p><p>Or rather, she was.  Scarlemagne peers over the top of his book, suspicious of the silence.  Kipo, unsurprisingly, is sound asleep.  She is sprawled on her back, one hand still behind her head and the other resting on her stomach.  He has never seen her still and relaxed, and it strikes him that she is terribly young.</p><p>A thought comes to him.  For once, it’s not a thought tangled up in anything unpleasant.  His mind has been a crowded and perhaps slightly unreliable venue for over a decade, fury and cunning built up over the remnants of the fear that came before it.  The terror of his youth was so constant that for a long time, he did not even have a name for it; he took it as a fact of life, that of course <em>everyone</em> slept only intermittently because someone might come in and drag you off for blood samples, that was simply how it <em>was</em>.</p><p>But this is something new and light.  Scarlemagne gets to his feet to follow it.  His replacement star blanket has remained carefully folded on a corner of the cot.  He picks it up with both hands and runs his thumbs over the fabric.  It’s fine cloth, salvaged as it was from his palace, and although the glitter glue is… texturally tacky, it sparkles prettily in the dim lamplight.  He brings it with him to the cell bars.</p><p>It is awkward and tedious, unfolding the blanket and spreading it over Kipo.  He can only reach so far through the bars, and the breeze is uncooperative.  But at last he manages, and he only just stops himself from patting her on the shoulder as if to say, <em>there, all done</em>, in case it wakes her.  She shifts, and he freezes, imagining that he somehow disturbed her sleep anyway.  But she only rolls over and takes some of the blanket with her, destroying minutes of careful work.  He cannot mind too much; she’s clinging to the blanket, bunching it up under her chin.</p><p>Scarlemagne slowly returns to his book.  He holds it where the light falls through the bars.  Eventually, Kipo will be missed, and someone will come to put her to bed properly.  Until then, she snores softly a few feet away.  Scarlemagne reads.  He glances up each time he turns a page, but though she sighs occasionally, she sleeps on.  The poor girl must have been exhausted.  Well, she can sleep as long as she likes, and at least now she’s warm.  After a while, just as he predicted, he registers footsteps.</p><p>Lio is standing in the middle of the platform, staring at him.</p><p>Belatedly, Scarlemagne realizes he has forgotten to look canny and superior.  If anything, he looks owlish, blinking up at Lio from his book in the dim light.  He straightens his posture and gestures grandly toward Kipo.  Lio is still for a moment longer.  He looks as though he dearly wants to say something, but instead he kneels beside his daughter and touches her shoulder.  “Kipo.”</p><p>“Mmf,” Kipo says groggily.  But she allows Lio to help her to her feet.  She sways, yawns, and leans against his shoulder.</p><p>“Looks like it’s past somebody’s bedtime,” Lio notes.</p><p>Kipo grumbles a general rebellion against bedtimes—or a declaration of her own interminable endurance, it’s unclear—and pulls the blanket tighter around herself.</p><p>“Come on,” Lio says, “let’s get you to bed.”  He gently pries the blanket from her grip.</p><p>“She can keep it,” Scarlemagne informs him sharply.  He scowls at Lio’s obvious surprise and adds, “For now.”</p><p>Lio watches him with an unfathomable expression.  For the first time in long years, there’s no fear in it, and Scarlemagne gets the uncomfortable sensation of staring into a sort of mirror, as though he is catching a glimpse of the way he himself was just fondly watching over Kipo.  Very softly, as if to a skittish child, Lio says, “Goodnight, Hugo.”</p><p>The entirety of Scarlemagne’s extensive vocabulary catches somewhere in his throat.  Kipo breaks the silence with a huge yawn.  “’Night, Hugo,” she echoes.</p><p><em>That</em>, at least, he can address.  “Goodnight, Kipo,” he says sincerely.  He glances at Lio and then, almost abashedly, returns his gaze to the book.  He does not read it; he only stares at the page until he can no longer hear their footsteps.  Then he climbs into his cot and curls up.  His hand goes by instinct to an empty spot on the thin mattress, but surprisingly, there is no pang of bitterness or loss.</p><p>Dear Kipo has his blanket, and somehow Hugo feels warmer for it.</p>
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